


turn towards the sun

by Anonymous



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Park Jisung (NCT)-centric, Self-Esteem Issues, Small Blood Mention, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29210793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Staring back at him is a man with dark eyes framed by thin glasses. The front of his coat is darkened where Jisung had pressed his wet body against it, and by his feet is an upturned umbrella slowly filling with rain.He’s beautiful.Jisung is sure that his face is red, now.Or: It’s raining, and Jisung’s left his umbrella at home.
Relationships: Lee Jeno/Park Jisung
Comments: 13
Kudos: 48
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

It’s raining, and Jisung’s left his umbrella at home. He should have looked at the forecast before he left the house this morning, but he’d been running late, and barely even had the time to grab breakfast. The weather had been the last thing on his mind.

As he stands by the bus stop his clothes soak through with rain. It’s cold. So cold he can no longer feel his hands. The scarf he always makes sure to wear this far into winter does nothing to keep him warm, and his coat is more pretty than it is practical. He thinks belatedly of the notes in his backpack, and how they must slowly be getting wet, too.

Jisung turns his face to the sky and sighs. Today couldn’t get any worse.

It takes time for the bus to arrive. While Jisung waits, the sky grows darker, hungrier, rumbling with the promise of thunder. All Jisung can do to protect himself is bury his face in the wet wool of his scarf and pull the sleeves of his coat over the tips of his frostbitten fingers. His lips tremble, and Jisung isn’t entirely sure it’s just from the cold.

Taking a breath, Jisung thinks of his apartment. It’s never quite been a sanctuary to him, a place that he can return to, but now he thinks of walking indoors, somewhere safe from the cold and rain, and finally slipping into dry clothes. He thinks of making himself a bowl of rice and eating it, of how its warmth would blossom and bloom in his belly. He thinks of sitting in the living room as he waits for his notes to dry and watching the rain slip down the windows. The thoughts last him until he sees the bus in the distance.

It pulls in slowly, all washed-out white lights and windows curtained in condensation. When the tires skid into a puddle it kicks up some water from the road that splashes over Jisung’s shoes and wets the hem of his coat. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. He’s already wet enough. But some of the water trickles down his ankle and wets his socks, and it’s just another thing going wrong.

Jisung bites his lip and waits for the bus to roll to a stop. It’s alright, now. The bus is here and he’s on his way back. He’ll be able to sit down and collect his thoughts, and at the least, he’ll be out of the rain. 

The doors open and Jisung steps onto the bus, his hands digging around through his pockets for his wallet. They come up empty. Jisung looks up at the bus driver tapping his fingers on the wheel, impatient.

He slides his bag off his shoulder and mutters, “Sorry, just a second,” under his breath as he rifles through his soggy notes, the stationary spilling from his pencil case, the mountain of crumpled up fliers, but still no wallet.

Panic crawls up his throat. Where could he have put it? Could he have left it in one of the lecture halls? In the cafeteria, where he hadn’t even bought anything? The library, when he was studying?

Jisung feels so silly. About this, about everything. Waking up late and not having the time to brush his hair, look at the forecast, take an umbrella. Falling asleep at his desk and answering a professor’s question wrong in his daze. Leaving his wallet somewhere and spending the last coins in his pocket on a juice box from the vending machine. 

He sucks in a shuddery breath and wills himself not to cry. That would just be another thing to add to the list. 

Jisung lowers his eyes and curls his hands into fists. Fingernails dig bloody crescents into his palm. 

“Sorry,” he says to the driver, swivelling on his heel to get off the bus before he can embarrass himself any further. But as he does, his foot slips on the wet floor and his body lurches forward. 

There’s no grip. Nothing to hold onto. All Jisung can do is _fall,_ and he squeezes his eyes shut, braces for the impact, for the inevitable embarrassment...

...when someone catches him.

Two strong arms circle around his waist and pull him into a strong chest. They both stumble back with the force of Jisung’s fall, but he’s no longer in danger of face planting into the wet concrete. 

Jisung allows himself a minute to breathe in relief, for the flood of adrenaline to subside, before he realises just quite what happened. He almost thinks he would’ve rather fallen flat on his face. 

He scrambles backwards out of the stranger’s embrace and almost slips again, but he quickly steadies himself against the bus door. He’s more alert now, more awake, his heart beating so loud he can hear it in his ears. 

Staring back at him is a man with dark eyes framed by thin glasses. The front of his coat is darkened where Jisung had pressed his wet body against it, and by his feet is an upturned umbrella slowly filling with rain. The man bends down and picks it up, shaking it to empty it of water before he collapses it and steps onto the bus. He’s almost the same height as Jisung, just a few centimetres shorter, but his shoulders are broad and his eyebrows are bold and his skin is so _bright,_ and he’s— beautiful.

He’s beautiful.

Jisung is sure that his face is red, now. 

The stranger seems to pay him no mind as he steps around Jisung to pay his bus fare with a few unwrinkled notes. Behind him, Jisung is rooted to the spot. He’s too afraid to move. Too afraid to breathe. Too afraid of slipping and having the stranger catch him again. All he wants, now, is to go to the apartment and bury himself under the covers, never to come out. 

Outside, the rain is falling heavier, and the sky is lit up with occasional bursts of thunder and lightning. Walking home is going to be a nightmare. But, Jisung thinks, it can’t be any worse than what’s just happened. 

Just as he steps forward to finally make his way off the bus, the stranger speaks up. 

“I’ll pay his bus fare, too.”

And, oh. Of course his voice is lovely, too. Low and rumbly, whisky-smooth and silky, and… the reality of what he just said catches up to Jisung. He turns around so fast he almost slips again.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jisung says, his voice breaking a little at the end. He winces.

The stranger blinks at him and then smiles, his entire face melting with it. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, and turns his back in a way that brooks no argument to hand over a few more notes to the bus driver. 

Once he’s paid, the doors slide shut and the bus takes off, Jisung pitching forward momentarily at the sudden movement. A gentle hand on his arm keeps him upright. Jisung looks down at it, at the thin fingers curled into the material of his coat, and sighs. 

“Thank you again,” he says, dipping his head. 

The stranger nods at him, still smiling, and begins walking to the back of the bus. Jisung follows close behind. 

There are two empty seats sat side by side near the back. The stranger sits in one, tucking his body close to the window, and Jisung hesitates before sliding into the other. He balances himself on the edge of the seat, afraid to get too close and make the stranger wet again, but as the bus brakes sharply Jisung finds himself slipping again, so he settles back into the seat and plants his feet on the ground for purchase.

This close, he can feel the strong line of the stranger’s body pressing against his. That thigh against his thigh, that arm against his arm. As the stranger shuffles around to take something out of his bag, Jisung only feels him more closely: the elbow against his ribcage, the feeling of it muted through the fabric; the toe of a shoe bumping against Jisung’s ankle as he twists his body. It’s hard not to look at him. It’s hard not to think about him. There are so many thoughts going through Jisung’s head, of saying sorry, of thanking him again, and, daringly, of asking about his name.

But Jisung can’t do that. This stranger has already done so much for him; he can’t ask for even more.

So, Jisung sits in silence for the rest of the bus journey. This late at night it’s so dark that he can no longer see outside. The world moves in a blur of rain and the headlights from cars dotted through the mist like stars. 

It’s comfortable, somehow, to sit here with a body pressed against his. His mind is quiet. He thinks of nothing. His heart no longer races, and his hands no longer shake. If he could have something like this forever, Jisung thinks, maybe this world would feel more like a home. 

As the bus chugs through the night it slowly empties of people until they’re alone. Just Jisung and this stranger, sat side by side, at the back of a midnight bus. He wonders many times if he should get up and move but the stranger looks content enough curled up against the window, his eyes shut. 

Jisung allows himself to look. Only for a moment. The shadows of raindrops rolling down his face, the light flush on his cheeks from the cold, the way his hair brushes against his cheeks. 

Then, his eyes open. Jisung looks away, his heart skipping a beat. He can feel the stranger straighten in his seat. 

When Jisung looks back, he’s starting to gather his things. He makes sure his bag is zipped shut, and that his coat is buttoned up properly. He adjusts the scarf around his neck, and tucks a few unruly locks of hair behind his ears. Jisung holds back a sigh. 

This person is everything that Jisung is not. He’s clean and neat and holds himself as though he’s comfortable in his body, as though he’s comfortable at being looked at and known. What must someone like him see when he looks at a person like Jisung? The thought makes Jisung’s heart ache. 

The bus brakes again, startling Jisung into awareness. He sees the stranger staring at him, his entire body twisted to face Jisung.

“It’s my stop,” he says, and Jisung scrambles back out of the seat, utterly inelegant, but the stranger doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t snort or laugh, he just smiles, and it’s so warm there’s no doubt in Jisung’s mind that it’s anything short of genuine. 

The stranger shrugs on his backpack and reaches over to press the bell. Jisung watches him from where he stands at the back, and his heart aches again. For a different reason, Jisung realises. For a foolish one.

He doesn’t want him to go.

Perhaps it says something that Jisung is so taken by the first person to show him even the smallest amount of kindness, but to a person like him, to someone who has never so much as been gifted a friend or a smile or a day full of sunlight, this stranger’s company has been so precious that he never wants to let it go. 

He has to reach out to it. He has to say _something_ before he leaves. 

Jisung steels his resolve and calls out across the bus. 

“I don’t know how to pay you back.”

The stranger looks back at him quickly, as if he hadn’t expected Jisung to say anything. “There’s no need to,” he says. “Just have a good rest of your night, okay?”

Jisung blinks at him. It’s a foolish thing to say to a person like Jisung, and even more foolish for a person like Jisung to promise this, of all things, but he isn’t sure what else he could possibly say or do but nod. The stranger’s entire body relaxes as if with relief.

“That’s good,” he says. Quietly, softly. “Goodbye. It was nice meeting you.”

Jisung’s heart is in his throat. He never even got his name. He takes a breath and prays his voice doesn’t waver when he speaks. “You too. And thank you, again.”

The stranger inclines his head and steps off the bus into the night. Jisung watches him walk away, until he’s so far that he dissolves into the darkness. He only remembers to sit when the bus pulls away from the stop. 

Alone, the night feels emptier. Jisung sits in the stranger’s seat and presses his shoulder into the window to mimic the feeling of a person sitting next to him, but it feels different, colder. 

Jisung sighs and leans his head against the window. He yearns for that feeling again. 

As he shifts to get more comfortable for the rest of his journey, Jisung’s knee knocks something over. Whatever it is thuds dully as it hits the bus floor. Jisung peers down to see what it is, and freezes.

Oh.

It’s an umbrella. The stranger’s umbrella.

Jisung reaches to pick it up, the fabric still slightly damp from the rain. How could he leave without his umbrella? It’s still raining outside, still thundering, but the stranger hadn’t turned around once he stepped off the bus to come back for it. He’d kept walking straight through the rain.

How strange, Jisung thinks. He turns the umbrella around in his hands. On the handle is a white sticker with a phone number and a name. Jeno, it says. Lee Jeno. 

Jisung traces the edge of the sticker and turns the name over on his tongue. It’s pretty, as he thought it would be. A strong and wise name, one that suits its owner. Knowing it is a gift. 

Lee Jeno has given Jisung so much today; it’s only right that he pays him back in turn.

This time, when Jisung steps into the rain, it’s with an umbrella over his head shielding him from the thunder and lightning, and though he walks with his head bowed in the shadows, there's a small smile on face. A shy smile. It stays there, anchored in the winter rain, even when Jisung steps into his apartment and shrugs off his coat, his shoes, his wet socks, even when he shakes off the umbrella and rests it against the wall. A name and a number stare back at him from the handle.

There’s a call he has to make. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's nothing quite like falling in love on the back of a bus
> 
> thank you very much for reading ♡ any thoughts/comments very much appreciated


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jisung sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and he looks up over the lid of his laptop. 
> 
> His hands freeze over the keyboard. 
> 
> “Sorry,” Jeno smiles, sleepy and shy in the dim library light. “Was this seat taken?”

Jisung doesn’t feel like going back to his apartment today.

At first, it had been a place of quiet refuge, a place he could turn to and take a moment to breathe away from noise and away from people. But, as he’s come to realise after months of loneliness, he’s beginning to lose himself. The silence is no longer a place that he hides in. It drowns him. It presses him down into the floors. 

He’d considered getting a pet. A cat, perhaps, or even a fish, just something to remind himself that there’s life outside of these four walls, outside of himself. But there are days when he can’t even get out of bed, when he can’t even feed himself. He doesn’t trust himself to take care of something else. 

The library is a compromise. It’s a place of quiet but also a place of people. It’s reliable. He’ll be able to do everything he usually does back at the apartment, but without running the risk of crumbling under the weight of his own presence. 

So when his lectures for the day are finished, instead of taking the bus straight back home, Jisung heads to the library. 

At this time of day, it’s packed. Nearly every table and every chair is occupied with students hunched over and typing away at laptops, poring over notes, flipping through books. It’s quiet but it’s not entirely quiet. The space is filled with the sounds of people. With exasperated breaths and the papery turn of page, with the quiet clack of the keyboard and the scratch of a pen. It’s comforting. Jisung doesn’t hesitate to step forward. 

Eventually, he finds a table tucked away in the back corner, surrounded by trolleys of books to be marked and shelved. It’s a little bit cramped and chaotic but Jisung doesn’t mind. He sits down and shrugs off his coat, taking out his laptop from his bag and spreading out his books around him. He fishes through his bag for his pens and lays them out neatly besides him, highlighters in all different colours prepared for extensive notes. 

Studying is an easy rhythm to fall into, and Jisung finds that he likes it. For a short time, his mind is occupied by something other than the constant river of thoughts running through his head, telling him that he’s not worth it, _that’s_ why he’s lonely, why nobody wants to know him, so why does he bother trying? Why keep embarrassing yourself? Just keep your head down. Keep quiet. Stay small. It isn’t difficult for a person like Jisung to stay small; nobody looks for him anyway. 

Living like this is easy. Tiring, but easy. Jisung gets on with it. 

There are several assignments he has to complete by the end of the day, so he throws himself into his tasks, opening up so many tabs his laptop starts wheezing, jotting down so many notes his hands begin to cramp. At this rate he should be done hours before the midnight deadline. Then, he can go home, curl up in bed, and cry. 

An hour and several hundred words later, Jisung finally starts getting into it. The background hum of the library is white noise to him now, and its gentle company eases that loud part of his mind. He’s typing almost rhythmically, flitting between tabs and research articles and the assignment brief, so he almost doesn’t notice when someone slides into the seat across from him. 

Jisung sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and he looks up over the lid of his laptop. 

His hands freeze over the keyboard. 

“Sorry,” Jeno smiles, sleepy and shy in the dim library light. “Was this seat taken?”

Jisung opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out. He— Well. His mind is blank. It should be a blessing, a reprieve, this moment of nothingness, but instead all Jisung wants to do is scream. 

Three days ago Jisung had called Jeno, sitting in the cold foyer of his apartment, hands shaking around the phone. The conversation had been quick. Jeno’s voice was just as lovely over the phone, even when he was surprised, but it had sounded grateful, too, and they’d arranged to meet when either of them had the time. But as they were members of two different departments doing two very different things, their schedules were hectic. Jeno’s in his third year, probably busy with applying for internships. Jisung never knows if he’ll be able to get out of bed that day. After all, there aren’t forecasts for the storms in his brain. 

And who could predict something like this, either. That Jeno should find Jisung here of all places, tucked away in the back of the library among the unhoused books and scattered files, where the light bulbs haven’t been changed for years and the radiators make a strange clunking sound. 

Fortune such as this—if Jisung even dares to call it fortune at all—should make him smile. This is what he wanted, isn’t it? To see Jeno again, to find him, and to be found by him in turn. He should be happy. He should be _grateful._ But Jisung finds that he can’t. 

A feeling of dread seeps through his body. It takes days of mental preparation to build up to a meeting like this. Now, it’s just been laid there at his feet. 

“Jisung?” Jeno prompts after a minute of silence. 

Jisung blinks back into awareness and looks down at his keyboard, away from whatever expression Jeno currently has on his face. 

“Sorry— Yeah, it’s— It’s fine. Not occupied. You can sit there, if you want.”

“Thank you,” Jeno says, and begins to set up around the sprawl of Jisung’s things. 

All of a sudden it’s harder to concentrate. While the presence of people was welcomed, Jeno’s presence is something else entirely. Jisung is drawn to him almost dizzyingly, swept away in spring tide, helpless in its pull. His eyes can’t help but stray upward, watching as Jeno slots himself into the empty spaces on their table, their laptops placed side-by-side, their notes almost overlapping. Jeno has several highlighters too, all garish neon to Jisung’s various shades of blue, and several identical pens that he lines up neatly with evenly spaced gaps between. 

Jisung finds that he can’t stop looking. Out of the corner of his eye of course, and never above chest height. At Jeno’s hands arranging everything, at the gentle twine of his fingers, at the smooth file of his nails. The neat script of Jeno’s notes mimicking that on the umbrella handle. His knit jumper, pilling around the sleeves. 

Jisung forces his eyes back to his laptop screen, the cursor blinking at the end of a sentence. He doesn’t know where to go from here.

An hour passes them by with Jeno scribbling away on graph paper and Jisung struggling to finish a paragraph. His eyes are heavy now, and he has to fight to stay awake. At home he would have the simple luxury of falling asleep wherever he so pleased but Jisung can’t do that now. He can’t fall asleep on the desk, in front of Jeno, of all people! It would just be yet another embarrassment. 

Jisung abruptly stands up, the chair rocking backward and nearly toppling over before Jisung reaches out to steady it. Jeno snaps his head up, staring at Jisung with wide eyes. 

Ah. Perhaps Jisung could’ve been a bit more gentle. He winces and mutters out a small, “Sorry,” and makes to walk off, but when Jeno continues looking at him he hesitates. “I’m uh, just going to get some coffee from the vending machine… would you like one too?” he tacks onto the end. Winces again. But Jeno only smiles up at him.

“I’d love one,” he says. Jisung nods, and thinks that’d be the end of it, but Jeno stands up to follow him, too. When Jisung blinks and stares at him, Jeno pauses. “Was I not meant to come along too?” 

“No,” Jisung says, and then realises how bad that sounds. “No, you can. Sorry.”

Jeno shrugs. “No worries.” 

They begin walking out of the library to the vending machine tucked away by the stairs. Jeno walks beside him, their sleeves almost brushing with how close they are to each other, and it only reminds Jisung of that day on the bus, feeling the heavy press of Jeno’s thigh against his own. His entire body flushes with heat at the memory, and Jisung only hopes that his face isn’t turning red.

His heart is beating so fast he isn’t even sure he needs the coffee anymore. 

When they arrive at the vending machine, Jeno gestures for Jisung to go first, and he’s too tongue-tied to even try fighting it. He takes out his wallet and pays for a few shots of espresso and then picks up one of the paper cups and watches with rapt attention as the machine whirrs to life. The bitter smell of cheap, watered down coffee soon fills the air and it only barely distracts Jisung from the feeling of Jeno’s eyes on him. 

Once the coffee is done, Jisung scrambles to take it, uncaring of how the heat sears his hand through the thin paper. Jeno frowns and picks up one of the coffee sleeves.

He holds it out to Jisung and says, “You’ll burn your hand.” 

“Oh. Thank you.” 

Jisung places the coffee cup back down in the machine and reaches over to take the sleeve, but as he makes to pull away, Jeno’s fingers circle his wrist. His entire body stiffens up but Jeno doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy unfurling Jisung’s hand to inspect the redness of his palm, how it blisters with redolent heat. Each brush of Jeno’s fingers over his skin is heartbreakingly gentle. 

Releasing Jisung’s wrist, Jeno takes the sleeve and puts it on Jisung’s cup. “Here,” he says, holding it out to him. Jisung’s brain is a little bit fuzzy. It takes a minute for him to catch up. 

He takes the cup and holds it to his chest, cradling its warmth close. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Then, Jeno starts making his own coffee, but Jisung stops him before he can take out his wallet. “What is it?” Jeno asks.

“Let me pay,” Jisung says. And perhaps that brain fuzz has tamped down any fear he has, because Jisung would never usually be this confident, this bold. “You paid for the bus last time. It’s only fair.”

Jeno stares at him and then sputters out a laugh. “But you’re giving back my umbrella!”

“I haven’t, yet.” 

Jeno narrows his eyes and then hums, taking a step back almost reluctantly. “Well, alright then. If you insist.” 

Jisung moves forward to pay, aware once again of Jeno’s eyes on him. One part of him shrinks back away from it, but a new part of him, one he had never before been aware of, almost _preens._ He likes it, he thinks, even if his hands shake a little as they slide a cup under the coffee nozzle. 

He likes taking care of Jeno like this, too. Jisung knows it’s not much, almost nothing in comparison to helping a stranded stranger on a bus, but he doesn’t want to just sit there while Jeno does everything for him. He wants to pay for Jeno’s coffee. He wants to find his umbrella and give it back to him. There’s so much he wants to do, if only Jeno would let him. 

It’s also nice to think that this might be something like friendship. But Jisung won’t let himself think that far ahead, yet. What this is now, if it’s anything at all, is reciprocation. Jeno puts a sleeve on his coffee, and so Jisung does the same. It’s quietly tender. 

When Jeno’s coffee is done they make their way back to their study table. As the night crawls on the library has started to slowly empty, and more tables and study spaces are freeing up. Jeno could move if he wanted. He doesn’t need to resign himself to sitting in that cramped corner with Jisung. 

But despite all of the obviously empty spaces, Jeno doesn’t even hint at wanting to move. He places his coffee down besides his laptop and turns back to his notes, settling back into his stiff, uncomfortable chair as if this miserable little corner of the library is his home. 

How can this boy turn everywhere he goes into the brightest place? Jisung has never known anyone like him. 

He’s so in awe that he only just realises that he’s been staring open-mouthed. Jeno couldn’t have been looking though so Jisung just picks up his coffee and takes a hearty sip, filling his mouth with something other than reverence. The coffee is bitter, as expected, and Jisung can’t help but pull a face at it. Across the table, Jeno laughs.

“Sorry,” he says, muffling the pretty sound behind his hand, “It just really is that bad, huh?”

“It’s…” Jisung trails off. Struggles to find the right word. “Acceptable.”

Somehow that only makes Jeno laugh harder. “No need to defend it. It’s _shit._ But I guess it’s what I expect from a college vending machine. Better than the cold stuff from the cans anyway. People who drink that are psychopaths.” 

Jisung’s lips twitch. He very pointedly doesn’t say that he has, on many occasions, suffered through the cans when he hasn’t had enough for the ‘real’ stuff. 

“Anyway,” Jeno continues. “It’s better than nothing. It’ll get us through the rest of today, hm? Let’s work hard, Jisung-ah.” 

Jisung’s hand tightens around the coffee cup. _Jisung-ah,_ Jeno says, easy, familiarly, as if they could be friends. As if they _are._ It’s a lot, and Jisung isn’t entirely sure he knows how to deal with it, isn’t entirely sure he knows _what_ to do with it, but he thinks he doesn’t mind. He thinks he likes it. 

He thinks this could be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 祝大家牛年快乐！春节快乐！sorry it's a bit belated, my one hour nap turned into twelve hours, and i didn't manage to post this on time ><
> 
> thank you very much for reading! any thoughts / comments very much appreciated ♡


End file.
